"It's Ferguson," he said
quietly.

Stafford's eyes widened with astonishment. Then his right hand went
out and grasped the other's.

"Well, now," he said warmly, "that's what I call luck."

Ferguson smiled. "Mebbe it's luck," he returned. "But before I go
over to work for you there's got to be an understandin'. I c'n shoot
some," he continued, looking steadily at Stafford, "but I ain't runnin'
around the country shootin' men without cause. I'm willin' to try an'
find your rustler for you, but I ain't shootin' him--unless he goes to
crowdin' me mighty close."

"I'm agreein' to that," returned Stafford.

He turned again, looking back over his shoulder. "You'll sure be
over?" he questioned.

"I'll be there the day after to-morrow," stated Ferguson.

He turned and went into the Silver Dollar. Stafford mounted his pony
and loped rapidly out of town.

CHAPTER III

THE CABIN IN THE FLAT

It was the day appointed by Ferguson for his presence at the Two
Diamond ranch, and he was going to keep his word. Three hours out of
Dry Bottom he had struck the Ute trail and was loping his pony through
a cottonwood that skirted the river. It was an enchanted country
through which he rode; a land of vast distances, of white sunlight,
blue skies, and clear, pure air. Mountains rose in the distances,
their snowcapped peaks showing above the clouds like bald rock spires
above the calm level of the sea. Over the mountains swam the sun, its
lower rim slowly disappearing behind the peaks, throwing off broad
white shafts of light that soon began to dim as vari-colors, rising in
a slumberous haze like a gauze veil, mingled with them.

Ferguson's gaze wandered from the trail to the red buttes that fringed
the river. He knew this world; there was no novelty here for him. He
knew the lava beds, looming gray and dead beneath the foothills; he
knew the grotesque rock shapes that seemed to hint of a mysterious
past. Nature had not altered her face. On the broad levels were the
yellow tinted lines that told of the presence of soap-weed, the dark
lines that betrayed the mesquite, the saccatone belts that marked the
little guillies. Then there were the barrancas, the arid stretches
where the sage-brush and the cactus grew. Snaky octilla dotted the
space; the crabbed yucca had not lost its ugliness.

Ferguson looked upon the world with unseeing eyes. He had lived here
long and the country had not changed. It would neve